Dissolution
by NoxLamiarum
Summary: They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. All Hannibal sees is Will Graham. [Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Spoilers for 3x13]


Will buries his face in Hannibal's neck and the moment crystallizes. Time stops, like it was never real anyway. Like nothing but this has ever been real. Every moment leading up to this has been a practice round, a warm-up. All Hannibal's previous actions have been part of a game, but this—this is substantial in a way no game has ever been. As Will wraps his arms around him, Hannibal knows the universe was forged out of darkness so this could happen. He thought he was content before, but now those memories that seemed pleasant at the time reveal themselves as counterfeit. When Will folds himself into Hannibal, it's perfect. Hannibal's mind stills and his heart flutters. Everything is simple, sharp and clear as a fragment of broken glass.

Exhaling, Hannibal lets his body relax, lets Will pull them both over the edge of the cliff. Love was a nonsense word for most of Hannibal's life, but now it stretches inside him, threads itself through the blood that's seeping from his side. Love is acidic, dissolving them both, destroying them.

They fall but never touch the ocean, never near the jagged rocks below. Two teacups always on the verge of shattering. No one can take it back, time can't rewind. And Hannibal doesn't want to go back, goddamn his traitorous heart. Before Will Graham, Hannibal considered his own survival of paramount importance. But his dance with Will has been leading them to this moment since the beginning, and now that it's finally here, he's complete, satisfied.

The pull of gravity, the pain from his side, and the taste of blood fade from Hannibal. He steps into the room that holds the memory of the first time he saw Will Graham. Like brushing his hands across bolts of different fabrics, he peruses their conversations, watches the way Will reacts to him, the way his body responds to Hannibal's manipulations. Each memory is a pleasant sensation against his fingertips, but Hannibal moves on.

Will crumples against him, feverish, convulsing, vulnerable, malleable. The encephalitis rages through Will's brain but all Hannibal can think is how beautiful Will is, even broken. Will's soul is a dappled series of light and dark, pitch black shadows moving around brilliant rays of sun. Hannibal wonders if he's the forest casting the shadows, or if he merely lurks in the trees, watching.

Even in his memory palace Hannibal dances around the main course. On and on he moves, a spectator of his descent into this new madness.

Will stands in front of him, the mask of faithful FBI lapdog set firmly on his features, an act for the orderlies around them. Lies flutter from Will's lips but he is genuine twice:

"I need you, Hannibal… Please."

The words make something inside Hannibal rise and press itself against his skin, but he keeps his face as neutral as possible. What passes between them is theirs alone, not for Jack Crawford to see. Will's fleeting gaze is a flirtation and a challenge. But it's also an invitation. Hannibal smiles at the memory but passes by it, too, circling his true destination.

As they drive, they're silent. Hannibal is filled with anticipation, almost excitement. Sharing this with Will means so much more than Hannibal expected. The thought of standing by Will's side while they witness the stark brutality of the ocean sends a shiver up his spine. He knows what will come after, but it fails to make an impression on him. Beside him, Will shifts in his seat. Dark, sticky blood stains Will's coat. The car is full of it, but not even the smell of decay can ruin Hannibal's mood.

He walks through another door in his palace.

The golden light of sunset streams into his pristine rooms, and the scratchy weight of his prisoner's uniform becomes unbearable. Will lingers by the front door, but Hannibal wastes no time—they have so little left, now—and strips out of the distasteful uniform and slips into the shower.

When Hannibal emerges into the bedroom, Will is waiting. His presence surprises Hannibal, and he realizes Will isn't wearing that awful aftershave anymore. Without that, there's nothing to telegraph his presence from a room away.

"What are we doing here?" Will asks, eyes traveling over Hannibal's bare torso, down to the towel around his waist. "Playing house?"

"Is this a game for you?" His voice is light, and for a moment they flicker back in time to their sessions, and Will is pretending to look at books while studying Hannibal himself.

"It never was. Any of it." Will swallows and looks away.

"I'm taking advantage of my new freedom, enjoying a few luxuries denied to me." Hannibal walks into the closet, selecting something appropriate for the occasion at hand. After a moment of deliberation, he chooses.

"Prison must have been so terrible for you." Will's facing the ocean, staring at the fading horizon. The venom in his voice is endearing.

Hannibal lays his clothing on the bed, making his final decision on the shirt and nodding to himself. Perfect. Comfortable, maneuverable, but still flattering. "Thank you for orchestrating my release. I don't intend to go back."

Will has shed his coat—a bulky thing Hannibal suspects Will only wore to ruffle his feathers. Hannibal knows the curves of Will's body well enough to see the awkward, unbecoming shape of a gun shoved into the waistband of his pants.

"I don't intend to let you." Will turns, meeting his eye.

"My hero." Hannibal's mouth curves into a smirk. Will crosses the room, approaching him with an air of inevitability, drawn to him by a primal force. Hannibal feels the pull of it, too.

A drop of water slips down his chest, and he raises his towel to brush it away. Will's guarded eyes follow the motion as Hannibal abandons the towel and begins to dress. He moves slowly, basking in the heavy weight of Will's gaze.

"I could end this now." It's not a threat. Will's face is too motionless, too restrained. Desire lurks underneath his facade, the scent seeps out of his skin.

"Shoot me, then wait for the Dragon yourself, hope he won't notice my absence?" Hannibal chuckles as he adjusts his blazer, settling it on his shoulders. "Or you could kill me, put the gun in your own mouth, and let the Dragon take his rage out on the first perfect family he finds."

"You don't have to use emotional blackmail to keep me here." Will tears his gaze away, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm already all in."

"I'm well aware of that." Hannibal smiles, lets his desire to goad Will inflect his voice. "I was merely making an observation about the three courses of action available to you."

Will's grin is crooked, wry. "And what's the third option?"

Hannibal steps closer to Will. "Relax with me, perhaps open a bottle of wine while we wait. And when the Dragon comes, we kill him. Together."

"You want me to—what? Pretend nothing's changed? That we're friends, like old times?"

"I think what we are to each other has progressed past the point of mere friendship."

"What you are to me," Will moves closer, "is a means to an end. Nothing more."

Hannibal can feel the lie, see it in Will's eyes. And Will knows he's been caught. He straightens his back, defiant.

"What end is that, exactly?" Hannibal asks.

For one brief, blissful moment Hannibal is sure Will is about to close the space between them, but Will turns away.

"Your only use to me is an ending to this—this farce."

"The farce of my escape, or the farce of your attempt to live a normal life?"

With those words they've tumbled back into one of their conversations. Hannibal asks questions, prods Will, steers him, and Will evades. An endless game of cat-and-mouse.

Will laughs humorlessly, and the dark sound sends heat through Hannibal's entire body. "When Jack showed up at my door, I'd deluded myself into thinking I'd escaped you. But that wasn't true. Everyone else—" Will turns back to Hannibal, "Everyone else fades. Even the other monsters fade, eventually. But you—" Will gazes at Hannibal through his dark lashes, "you never did. I could always hear you whispering in my ear, feel your breath on the back of my neck." His voice is filled with disgust.

The rage pouring from Will's lips makes chills race down Hannibal's spine. His pulse quickens. "So you put me where you wanted me to save yourself the effort of looking. You wanted me available when you abandoned your half-hearted attempt at conventional family life."

Will grabs Hannibal by the lapels and slams him into the wall. Breath rushes out of Hannibal's lungs, and he draws in ragged gulps of air. Pain dances across his back and shoulders and pleasure rises with it.

"I wasn't—I wasn't saving you for later," Will snarls, mouth inches from Hannibal's. "I never wanted to see you again."

"Yet here we are." Hannibal licks his lower lip, a calculated gesture. Will's eyes follow the movement. Hannibal has him, now. Just one final push—

He lifts his hands as if to touch Will, but Will slams him into the wall again.

"Don't," Will growls, then whatever's been keeping him back breaks. He presses his body against Hannibal's. Their lips meet in what could be called a kiss in the same way a hurricane might be called a spring rain.

Hannibal has been anticipating this moment for an eternity. He parts his lips, yields to the violence. With a moan, he gropes for Will's hot skin.

Will jerks away, breath rapid, pupils dilated, and grabs Hannibal's wrists. Hannibal lets Will control him for the moment, lets Will pin his arms above his head. He's is hard now, and he can feel Will's erection against his thigh. Will's still so close to him, his scent overwhelming. Need courses through Hannibal. He writhes against Will, but not with genuine force.

He's been wondering what would happen when the mouse finally turned on the cat, when Will finally had enough of Hannibal's convoluted courtship. It would be rude to stop Will now.

Will's grip on his wrists is the perfect amount of painful. Hannibal aches to touch him, to push Will onto the bed and tear his cheap button-down shirt off. But he waits, no longer mindful of the deadline looming over them.

Another savage kiss, driven by hunger and hatred in equal amounts, and Hannibal's resolve weakens. Will slips his free hand up Hannibal's shirt, fingers ghosting over his side. Then his touch moves down, over the fabric of Hannibal's pants to find his cock.

"How long have you wanted to fuck me?" Will's voice is rough and low, but his hand remains light, teasing.

"If—" Hannibal closes his eyes. "If I'm being perfectly honest, the desire for this particular physical activity is a recent development. I admit to being confused during our early acquaintance. I thought I wanted to eat you in a more literal sense. But in Florence—" he gasps as Will's touch becomes more insistent, "In Florence I felt none of my usual satisfaction in preparing to cook you. I had time to analyze my feelings at the Verger estate, and even more in prison. I realized my appetites for you were of a common nature."

"This isn't common." Will unzips Hannibal's pants, pulls his cock out. "This is scratching an itch before we lead each other to slaughter." He strokes Hannibal with agonizing slowness.

"I suppose this brand of intimacy is nothing new," Hannibal says between breaths, "I've been inside you for years."

Will chuckles and loosens his grip on Hannibal's wrists. He's disappointed for a heartbeat or two, then Will kneels, pressing Hannibal's hands against the wall by his side. Tendrils of pain snake up his arms but fade to background noise as Will takes his cock in his mouth. Again Will moves slowly, and it occurs to Hannibal that he also might want to make this moment last.

There won't be many moments after.

"And how long have you wanted me to fuck you?" Hannibal asks, unable to stop himself. He finds just as much pleasure in taunting Will as he finds with his cock in Will's mouth.

Will stops, stands, rests his forehead against Hannibal's. His hand returns to Hannibal's cock, and now his fingers are slick with saliva. "Since the first time I woke up with a hard-on and your name in the back of my throat."

"Perhaps we should cross this item off our bucket lists, then." Hannibal watches Will, waiting for rejection, or disgust, or doubt.

But Will leans close, lips brushing Hannibal's ear as he whispers, "I agree, Dr. Lecter." He steps away, towards the bed, and Hannibal follows.

As they collide with the waves, as the real world pulls Hannibal back into the present with insistent, icy fingers, he wraps his arms around Will, returning his embrace. Neither of them let go.


End file.
